


258 - Wonderful, Gross Bodily Function

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Hero Van, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt "something really focused on 'the first time YN embarrassed herself in front of van and van is cool about it and reassures her because she's embarrassed AF' like eating bad food and getting sick at his house or staining his bed with period blood or like getting too drunk and shitting herself or WHATEVER but he's just like 'love youre human I don't care' and super reassuring"





	258 - Wonderful, Gross Bodily Function

The thick, soft, white sheets that had impressed you the night before were now the cause of all your misery. They were your untimely undoing. Pain inducing, life ruining, motherfucking Egyptian cotton sheets. 

Van had made sure to tell you all about the thread count as you climbed on top of him the night before. He wanted you to know he was looking after his house and himself, like you told him to. No more bachelor style, frat house living. As your bare skin was rubbing against the sheets that he so dearly loved, you fell in love with them too. 

But now, now you fucking hate them.

Standing next to Van's bed, your lower back aching, your body temperature rising, and your legs crossed over each other, you willed the blood in your body to stay there. You willed the blood all over the sheets (and probably soaked into the mattress) to just evaporate. Stop existing.

It was going to be a warm day. Van had already opened all the windows in the house. The bedroom one looked out over the front porch. That is where Van and Larry were. You could hear them chatting away. You tiptoed from the room, doing your best to not make the floorboards squeak or doorknob rattle as you headed to the bathroom. There were only so many messes you can clean up at once, and you were going to die if you didn't drink some water.

In the bathroom, you folded a handful of toilet paper into a neat rectangle and put it in your underwear. Holding it in place with the cheap band-aids you found in the second drawer down, it was the best makeshift pad you had ever made. And like most people with vaginas, you had made a few. Underwear on, you thanked the heavens for the fact you hadn't slept in them. They'd be part of the bloodbath too, otherwise.

Searching frantically, you couldn't find any painkillers in the drawers or bathroom cabinet cupboards. You'd have to ask for Van when you were done with life on the murder scene.

You splashed water on your face like they did in the Neutrogena commercials to try to cool down. Not once in your whole life had you ever lathered your face with cleanser, only to attempt removal by throwing cupped handfuls of water at yourself. You had never met anyone that had. Yet, the commercials still showed acne-free girls splashing about like people in the U.S. weren't mailing each other bottles of water. Still, the method did work to cool and calm you. As the drops of water ran down your neck and chest, you breathed out.

"Okay, you're okay," you whispered to yourself. Not a great sign.

Leaning in to drink straight from the tap, you were only a few sips in when there was a small knock at the door. You almost choked. You stood up straight and froze.

"Y/N? You okay?" Van asked. His tone was strange. It was forced, fake.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. Why?"

There was a pause. You knew he'd have looked for you where he'd left you - all loved up and perfectly clean in bed.

"Um… 'Cause there's… you're… Uh. I saw the blood. There's also blood on this door. Not sure how you managed that." You could tell that he felt better as soon as he said it. You, however, did not. "Y/N? What do you need? Want me to get your dress?"

It was tangled up in Van's jeans on the bedroom floor.

"Yes. Please,"

"'Kay. I'll get it. If you're all good, love. Just come out, yeah? It's okay."

He waited for you to reply, but when you didn't he walked away.

You checked the bathroom sink and floor and anything you touched for signs of blood. Nothing. Opening the door, you saw that somehow you'd left a fingerprint of blood on it as you'd pushed your way in. You stayed hiding behind it until Van appeared, offering your clothes from around the corner. 

You slipped the dress on and immediately felt less ashamed. Stepping out into the hallway, Van had his usual casual look on his face. Yours was an expression of pure embarrassment; your cheeks had never been hotter.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

"For what? Not your fault," he answered with a shrug. You looked over his shoulder down the hall. The bedroom door was closed.

"Is Larry still-"

"Yeah, outside. You okay though? 'Cause you look real pale," Van asked, holding his hand to your forehead.

"It's just cramps. Just need a glass of water, then I'll clea-" you started to say. Van was already shaking his head.

"Nah. Come on. Have a seat on the couch, have a little lie down. I'll bring you the water. Want some painkillers? Got some in the kitchen. I'll get them," he said, poking your tummy and sides until you were forced to walk backwards towards the lounge.

"I don't wanna sit on anything," you said, growing more modified by the second.

"I'll get you a towel or something," he offered helpfully.

"Oh my god," you mumbled in response.

"I'm only asking this 'cause you didn't have a bag with ya last night, but do ya need one of us to go get anythin'? Like tampons or whatever?"

"One of us?!" you whispered in a high pitch tone.

"Love. Larry knows about periods. Ain't a secret to anyone,"

"Van!"

"What? You wanna walk down the block and get 'em yourself?" he asked with an annoyingly smug grin on his face. You shook your head. "Yeah, didn't think so. So, wait here. I'll get a towel. Although, that couch has had a lot worse things on it than period blood…" Van paused for a moment, lost in a memory you very did not want to know about. "Ah. Okay. So… what do you need? Tampons or pads?"

Van had asked the question the same way you'd ask someone if they had milk and/or sugar in their tea. Later, when the horrified state you had found yourself in had melted away, you would love Van for it.

"Pads. With the wings. Please," you whispered in what you considered to be defeat.

Van nodded and walked off. You could hear him and Larry speak, then the sound of Larry getting in his car and driving. Van returned with a dark blue towel in hand.

"He's gonna go to the shops instead of just the place on the corner. He'll be back soon. Here. Sit now. I'll get water," Van updated, then poked you towards the couch again.

Towel down, you sat and watched Van leave. Alone and nothing to do, you curled up and laid your head on the armrest. Maybe it was the cramping pain, the embarrassment, the love for Van, or all of it combined, but you started to cry.]

It was silent; only a few tears formed then rolled down your cheeks. Van returned and uncurled one of your hands that had formed a pain-fighting fist to place two painkillers on your palm. You quickly put them in your mouth and swallowed with the water he handed to you in a coffee mug.

As you laid back down, Van stood and left the room again. Again, he was back quickly, carrying the sheets from his bed through the room on his way to the laundry. You wanted to tell him all your sisterhood tricks of blood removal. There was no energy in you to do speak though.

Like he had read your mind, on the way back he said, "Don't worry, love. Grew up in a bed and breakfast. Means I've seen all the stains a body can make. Know how to clean 'em all too. Easy peasy."

He leaned down and kissed your forehead before disappearing again. He was gone long enough that you'd fallen asleep out of emotional exhaustion by the time he was gently tapping your arm.

"Hey, love. Everything's all clean," he whispered, watching your face carefully.

"Did I ruin the mattress?" you asked, matching his whisper but upping the game with a dazed slur.

"Nah. Got it in time. Reckon the sheets will be all good too. Don't matter if they're not," he said with a shrug. "Did you wanna go back to bed then?"

"No!" you whined. "I'll ruin it again!"

Van smiled a sad, sympathetic smile and nodded. He began to brush the hair out of your face, folding it behind your ear and generally sort of touching you where he could in small, sweet ways.

"It's really fine. Not your fault. And it's just blood, you know? One time when we was just kids, Larry and I stole all this fuckin' horrible ale stuff from his dad's shed, right. We drank it all in my room and passed out. It was awful. Made us both so sick. When we woke up one of us had spewed it up and one of us had pissed everywhere. Don't know who did what. Wasn't that fussed then. Not fussed now," Van said. You groaned in response. "Hey! That's a good story! Gonna pretend that sound was because of them cramps and not me,"

"You do that," you whispered.

"Speakin' of them. You know that orgasms are meant to be real good for period pain," Van said, like he wasn't just talking about human vomit and urine.

"What?”

"Yeah. Just saying. If you want to go have a shower, I'm happy to-"

"Guys?!" Larry's voice called through the house just in time to save you from the worst (or was it best?) proposition ever made to you.

Larry appeared, putting two bags on the coffee table. Van, who was sitting on his knees on the floor next to the couch to be close to you, turned to rummage through them. You watched them pull out candies and chocolates and all your favourite junk food. There were fresh apples and a jar of peanut butter with your name on it. Van found the pads and casually threw them at you. You stood quickly and awkwardly waddled off to the bathroom.

Once your guerrilla pad was disposed of and modern technology prevailed, you felt a whole lot more comfortable. Before returning to the lounge room, you snuck a look at the bed. Van was right; there was no stain left on the mattress. His old, greying sheets were where the new ones had been. They were familiar to you. Worn, but worn by you and Van and all your midnight love.

In the lounge, they guys had set up a game of Fifa. One of them had made tea too, while the other set out all the food. Van patted the couch, and you curled up next to him, pillow in his lap acting as a buffer between your fragile head and his bony knees. You were used to napping like that - with a moving, frantic football-playing Van around you.

"Good, love? Need anything else?" he asked just before starting the game. You shook your head. He glanced down. "All that red's gone from ya cheeks," he noted.

"Did you tell her about when we was kids-" Larry went to say.

"Yes," you interrupted. Once was enough.

"Just saying. No need to get all weird about what your body does," Larry finished. He burped for show. It made you giggle, despite yourself.

"He's right. I love you to bits. Might be the first time you do something… like, something you're embarrassed about, but we're gonna get married and have kids one day. And you'll come on tour sometimes. We'll get sick at the same time. Hungover together. It's gonna get messy, Y/N. Just gotta roll with it. Only human, you know?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Thank you. Both. I love you. Both," you replied.

"But more me?" Van asked. Larry snorted.

"Yeah. More you, Van."

He grinned then started the game.


End file.
